


Nine For A Kiss

by TheAngryKimchi



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Birds, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Tom's adorable and sweet, a tiiiiiiny bit of angst, and Chris is just so in love with him, confused Chris Hemsworth, set during the filming of Thor (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAngryKimchi/pseuds/TheAngryKimchi
Summary: Tom is smiling, finally having enough mind to swallow the bite he’d taken off his sandwich before whatever that caught his attention so.“Six,” he says, his face pleased and pale white against the contrast of his dyed black hair, eyes shining with humour as he points at a flock of birds.Chris gives a confused grimace, not really understanding. “Six what?”“The magpies, silly, they are six. Six equals gold and Loki wears gold,” he turns his finger to point at the gold-painted metallic collar of his costume as if this will make it make any sense.“Huh,” Chris says, returning the smile - even if a little tight - while glancing between the birds and the collar. “Would you look at that. . .” he still doesn’t get it, but, whatever it ever might be, it’s succeeded in making his friend happy and Chris won’t be the one to burst that bubble.—or five times Chris was confused over Tom's fixation with magpies and one time he was fully aware of the meaning behind it.
Relationships: Chris Hemsworth/Tom Hiddleston
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79





	Nine For A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Fic inspired by this [tweet](https://twitter.com/supitslois/status/1260274515558440962) I came across one late night and promptly sparked the Hiddlesworth feels in me!🥰
> 
> Enjoy! 💕

1.

They are having their lunch break the first time it happens. It’s a rare long one between the filming of scenes they are allowed to enjoy at the park out back from the filming set until they are needed again. 

Chris and Tom are sitting on a blanket, still in their costumes and tired but still excited for their new roles. Chris finished his meal a good five minutes ago, going at it like a man starved, but Tom’s still nibbling slowly on his sandwich, too immersed in his little speech about something that has succeeded in going completely over Chris’ head as he’s too busy focusing on the movements Tom’s slim hands are making, the way his eyes shine in excited emotion and how the light breeze keeps throwing thin strands over his face that catch on his lips before Tom brushes them away and tucks them back behind his ear in a motion that feels both mundane and charming to the blond’s eyes.

It’s during a lull in their (mostly) one-sided conversation when Tom makes a high sound of surprise at the back of his mouth, perking up from his relaxed slouch as he starts swaying back and forward, trying to look at something behind Chris' back, thin lips moving as he counts under his breath. 

Chris, perplexed, follows Tom’s gaze, seeing nothing much but green grass and trees and a few walkers passing by that don’t pay them any mind, birds and butterflies and flowers littering the park; the sun shining, still high but not strong enough to blind him. When he turns back around, Tom is smiling, finally having enough mind to swallow the bite he’d taken off his sandwich before whatever that caught his attention so.

“Six,” he says, his face pleased and pale white against the contrast of his dyed black hair, eyes shining with humour as he points at a flock of birds. 

Chris gives a confused grimace, not really understanding. “Six what?”

“The magpies, silly, they are six. Six equals gold and Loki wears gold,” he turns his finger to point at the gold-painted metallic collar of his costume as if this will make it make any sense. 

“Huh,” Chris says, returning the smile —even if a little tight— while glancing between the birds and the collar. “Would you look at that. . .” he still doesn’t get it, but, whatever it ever might be, it’s succeeded in making his friend happy and Chris won’t be the one to burst  _ that  _ bubble.

“Such a charming coincidence,” Tom beams and finally returns to his food, grayish eyes still glinting with playfulness. 

Chuckling lightly, Chris lies down on the blanket for the rest of their break, ready to soak up as much sun as he can before he has to return to the filming set and shrug back on the role of the spoiled and arrogant prince.

2.

The second time it happens it’s during a morning jog at the park near their shared flat. They have already been running for twenty minutes when Chris signals for a break, slightly out of breath and needing to get some water into his parched mouth before being able to continue. 

They slow down, walking off the running path and to an empty bench that’s overlooking the pond where Tom promptly falls to sprawl on with his arms perched on the backrest and legs open obscenely wide. Chris has to turn his back to him, act as if Tom’s stance isn’t making his skin feel a little too hot under the collar as he drinks from his water bottle and then sprays a little on his face as well, trying to cool off this sudden rush of heat.

When he dares to glance at him again, he finds Tom having dropped his head back, exhibiting the pale stretch of his thin neck, shirt going tight onto his chest as he breathes deep in and out, nipples poking in tiny dots on the stretched fabric and… he’s ridiculous! All laid out like that! Like an invitation for Chris to take that one step that’s keeping them apart, bend over him and run his lips over Tom’s welcoming flesh until Tom has no other choice but to squirm and moan as wantonly as Chris is certain he will.

Chris is pretty sure Tom would love the sensation of his beard on his sensitive neck, would probably shiver and giggle like he did that first time Chris put his hand on his neck. He’d probably try to pull back, just to return for more, sigh when Chris would mouth on his skin, scold him to not leave any marks.

And he’s also pretty sure Tom’s doing this on purpose —he can’t find any other way to reason all this hyper sexuality Tom’s exceeding. It comes in such contrast with his usual air of sweet innocence and his natural gentleness that it  _ must  _ be on purpose. One cannot possibly be so sexy without having to avidly try for it.

Plus, he thinks Tom might want the same thing as him —Chris has seen the way the Brit looks at him sometimes, has noticed the unintentional subtext of desire they’ve both put into their roles without actively discussing about it. 

“Oh! Magpies!” Tom exclaims suddenly, effectively shaking Chris from the spiralling of his very inappropriate thoughts and just,  _ what? _

“What?” Chris asks aloud, eyes zooming out from the alluring sight of Tom’s neck to rise on his face that’s still nearly hanging over the other side of the backrest. He spans out his gaze and, sure enough, there is a flock of said birds hopping around on the grass a few yards away.

“Magpies!” Tom repeats and starts counting under his breath: “-five, six, seven. Hmm, I wonder what the secret might be.”

“Uhh...” Chris feels a little alarmed, has he said anything out loud? Is he so obvious in his desire for him so Tom’s making fun of him? And what the hell do the damn birds have to do with all this? 

But Tom isn’t paying him any mind, he just smiles at the sight of the birds flapping around for a while before he gets up, drinks a few sips of his water and pats Chris on the shoulder. Hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“Should we go on, we have to be on set at nine?”

Chris nods, easily stepping away from the touch as they resume jogging.

3.

If one’s an accident and two’s a coincidence, then three’s a pattern and Chris has always abided by this rule.

Hence, the third time Tom points at a small group of magpies and then shuts his eyes for a few seconds, he starts thinking more on it than he did when it was seemingly random instances during which more important things were happening than his friend’s strange observation. 

This time, Chris is watching Tom from his place at the couch as the latter is bent nearly halfway through their flat’s window that has a perfect view of one of the small park’s entrances. Chris is trying very hard not to think of the way Tom’s ass looks from that angle or how his sweats are perfectly stretched over the small but prominent swell, supposedly watching the game that’s on the TV, a beer that’s quickly turning warm in the grip of his hand and a bowl of popcorn on the seat beside him. 

They were watching the game together until a couple minutes ago, when Tom had suddenly sighed, complaining about the heat and went to open the window and Chris hasn’t been able to pay any mind on the what’s happening on the TV since then because he’s got  _ thoughts  _ about Tom’s ass, okay? And they certainly aren’t colleague-friendly in the least! 

He is too busy ogling at his friend, hopping with everything he’s got Tom won’t ask him for the score when he decides to come back to the couch, when Tom leaves out that excited little  _ “ahh!”  _ he does whenever he sees something he particularly likes. 

“Magpies!” he nearly shouts, pointing out the window and turning to look with this staggeringly brilliant look in his eyes.  _ Gosh they are so big and beautiful,  _ Chris thinks like the fool he is and has to shake himself out of it before Tom notices that something is going on here. But Tom has already turned back towards the park. He counts up to eight and then shuts his eyes, lashes casting perfect shadows on the tops of his sharp cheekbones, creating a perfect, almost serene, profile in the fading hues of the setting sun for Chris’s viewing. A modern painting maybe.  _ Hm, lover on the windowsill, _ Chris thinks and, really, is there something wrong with him? Where do this overly corny thoughts keep coming from? 

Maybe Tom’s rubbing off on him. God knows he’s spent entire evenings listening to him go on and on and on about Shakespeare and the overtures of love and betrayal and the poetic beauty of sorrow and whatmore. 

“Did you make a wish?” Tom asks when he comes back, pink-cheeked and happy, biting his bottom lip a little in a way that makes Chris want to grip his sharp chin in his hand and press on it until his thumb replaces Tom’s lip between his teeth.

“No, why would I?” Chris wonders, clearing his throat and pulling his expression into a frown.

“There were eight magpies in the park! Eight for a wish? Come on, Chris, make a wish!”

“Okay, okay!” 

Chris raises his hands in placation, closes his eyes while Tom comes to sit on the other corner of the couch and he is just so incredibly confused he can think nothing to wish for but to never stop seeing Tom’s smile. “Done,” he says when he slides his eyes back open and finds his friend looking at him expectantly. “Happy?”

Tom smiles at him, wide and open and brilliant and Chris thinks he might be a tad more gone on him than he originally thought. 

Turning towards the TV, Tom glances momentarily at Chris.

“So, what’s the score?”

“Uhh. . .”

4.

After that time, they happen to be too swarmed up in work for them to have any chances to go out. They spend hours upon hours at the filming set, Chris travels briefly to New Mexico for filming a few scenes and then, after a while, Tom joins him for a couple days. 

The heat is nearly too much for the cast and crew, but Chris is used to it because of long summers spent in the scorching heat of his native country. He misses the ocean so much it’s something close to hurting, though, and he finds himself daydreaming of waves most days than not. The nights are cold, in perfect contrast to the days, reminding him of camping trips with his brothers deep in the Australian wilderness when they’d lie on the trunk of Luke’s truck, watching the stars or telling silly horror stories to each other by the burning fire. 

The days pass exhaustingly slow with too much work and too much sun and, inadvertently enough, Chris finds himself anticipating the moment Tom will step foot in New Mexico more than anything else and, despite his exhaustion, seeing Tom’s face when he steps out of the car has an instant effect on his drooping mood. 

“Hey, man, nice to see you,” Chris beams as soon as he sees him, accepting the hug Tom wraps him in a tad awkwardly. It feels so good to have him here after so long, though, that he sucks up to it and lets Tom decide when it’s been enough time. 

“Chris! Nice to see you again!” Tom says, still holding on to him as if he needs the closeness, as if he’s missed him a little more than absolutely necessary. 

Chris won’t complain any time soon whichever might be the reason.

He nuzzles a little into Tom’s curly head, as subtle as he can, tightening the fit of his arms around his lean waist. Tom smells a little stale from the flight and he’s already turning a nice pink when he finally pulls back, the heat getting to him quickly.

“Yeah, mate, same. But come on, let’s get back inside before you have a heatstroke,” Chris jokes and Tom might chuckle a little in response, but it’s airy and frail, the light not exactly reaching his eyes.

Tom’s a little too quiet for the next couple of days, pondering, kinda melancholic when they aren’t filming and he doesn’t have to be in the role and Chris finds himself wondering what happened while they were apart to have him acting like that. However, there’s no way to ask him about it but a few  _ are you okay man’ _ s to which the replies are always the same; that fake smile Chris so hates and a light  _ ‘yeah, perfectly fine’  _ before Tom redirects to the topic of their scenes and how best to act them out.

—

One day —the last of Tom’s stay— Chris happens to have a lunch break just as Tom is finishing his meal. 

They’re filming separately today; Tom the scene where Loki tries to lift Mjolnir and fails, while Chris is filming with Natalie, Stellan and Kat. In contrast to him however, Tom has to wait around until later in the evening for the filming to start for him.

He’s already in makeup, but he’s neither in costume nor has his hair done yet. It isn’t brushed and gelled back in Loki-fashion, and Chris notices for the first time the few lighter, dark-brown streaks on his bangs where the strands have discolored already. It’s strangely fitting for him, for his baby face with the sharp cheekbones and the wide, doe eyes, but Chris almost wishes he could see him with his wild blonde curls before he had to dye them. He’s a little sad about it actually, has seen pictures of him before the filming started, watched a movie or two of his when he was alone in the flat, so he knows how the crazy tufts add to his ‘good boy’ image.

“Hey, mate,” Chris says, trying not to linger too much on how the sweats Tom’s got on cling on his long legs or how the black t-shirt spreads across his chest. “Were you just done here?”

“Yeah, but I could keep you some company. I’m not needed in prep for a while yet,” Tom smiles, a rare, honest one since he came to New Mexico, and pushes the seat across from him back with a foot.

Chris takes the seat happily, spends the next half an hour joking around with him, talking over their roles in that incessant, almost obsessive way they always do; about the relationship of the brothers and the basis of their actions, what makes them  _ them _ , their interactions and how they should act-out the scene they have to film together come tomorrow and finally, somehow, Chris gets Tom laughing! 

He’s snortling into his cup of soda, covering his nose with a palm because of something a little acidic Chris said about Thor’s muscles having bloated so much they have reduced the blood flow to his brain when his blue eyes glance to the side and his laugh cuts off.

“Oh! A mag- . . .pie. . .” Tom nearly exclaims, but his voice falls into an almost disappointed whisper as soon as he perks up to look at the bird that somehow, someway, manages to excite him so much every time. 

“What’s wrong?” Chris asks a little alarmed, looking at where Tom is now staring sadly at.

And the reply doesn’t make enough sense, but that’s kind of the usual now, Chris wasn’t really expecting it to. 

“It’s only one,” Tom whispers, shoulders falling in disappointment and it’s such a strong reaction for a simple bird that Chris almost breaks and asks what’s the matter with those damned birds is because, fuck, he didn’t want to see Tom pulling any further into himself!

Chris is reaching out his hand to grip onto Tom’s forearm and ask him again what’s wrong when Tom visibly shakes himself out of it and turns back to their discussion before this whole debacle. “Anyway, as I was saying earlier, I think Thor should-” 

—

Maybe it’s a Brit Thing or simply a Tom Thing _ ,  _ because he’s a little weird like that, charming with all those strange quirks of his, the intelligence of his eyes and his intellectual ways of thinking and speaking. And maybe Chris shouldn’t feel as infatuated as he does, maybe it should be tiring for him, should be exhausting him out to be spending so much time with someone so different from him, someone so quirky and private and smart. Chris is a farm boy after all, brought up surrounded by animals and the wilderness of both the woods and the ocean, he’s outgoing, goofy, a pain in most of his colleagues butts exactly because of his almost uncouth ways. He’s not someone like Tom.

Tom who’s so well-versed and well-behaved, with his boarding schooling and his high-esteemed acquaintances. With his Shakespeare and his Tolstoy and his Boyd and his smart humour and ability to make even the most mundane thing sound interesting, his every gesture and motion seem elegant and thoughtful. All those things that make Tom what he is. 

And Chris shouldn’t be feeling so lonely, so bare to be away from him; to not have his deep, lilting voice with the soft  _ r _ ’s and the drawling  _ e _ ’s when Tom’s not near him but he does and-

Yeah, anyway, the magpies obsession doesn’t make sense to him no matter how much he might try think on it and Tom’s back in California before Chris has the chance to ask about it.

5.

They don’t talk a lot during their separation, exchange only a couple, almost mandatory texts to ask each other for their opinion on a few scenes, which makes Chris a little sad when he’s got a few free minutes to think about it. But it’s all about work for a little so when the chance shows itself, one rare day when they both happen to have their day-off at the same day, Chris makes sure to grasp it before it can slip through his hands. 

“Hey, I was thinking. . .” Chris begins when Tom makes his way out from the bathroom, fresh from a shower, dyed black hair still wet and dripping on the hem of his t-shirt. Tom smiles at him expectantly, showing that Chris’s got his full attention while Chris is grateful for Tom to be kind enough and not making that abhorrent  _ ‘did it hurt?’  _ joke — God only knows how many times Chris has heard  _ that _ one already. “Would you like to grab brunch with me tomorrow?”

Chris brings a hand to rub on his neck, nearly expecting Tom to have made plans already and berating himself for not gathering the courage to ask earlier. 

It’s not like he’s asking him on a  _ date  _ for fucks sake! Just a simple friendly outing as colleagues who happen to have the same day off and might even have a crush on each other. Nothing big or weird about it. Nope.

“Yeah, I’d love to, Chris,” Tom smiles —a little shyly if Chris is not mistaken— and the way he says his name, with that soft ‘r’ rolling on his tongue, is suddenly too much for him after so long.

“Perfect. I’m gonna go for a run. See you later,” he says and makes his way hastily out the door, leaving a very speechless Tom behind him.

—

The next day Chris drives them to a little bistro he found one day by chance. The weather is nice, just hot and sunny enough to not actually overheat them and there’s a light breeze that makes it easier for them to choose a table outside under the striped tent. 

They make small talk over their menus and giggle like schoolboys planning on cutting a class to go have a fig back outside when they decide to splurge and to hell with their diets. So they order a stack of pancakes, sunny-side-up eggs, bacon and french toast and milkshakes because that’s the American way and one should at least try it once in their life before turning their noses at it. The taste is weird at first, too sweet in comparison to everything else, but they get used to it quickly enough and, in the end, it turns out to be their best decision yet as it manages to cool them when the day progresses the midday sun gets hotter.

Whatever had been looming over Tom, souring the last time they were together, gets completely absolved as they laugh and giggle over brain freeze and messy eating and carefully avoid talking about work in a place that public. They may flirt a little too, and, this time, when Tom notices a small group of magpies bathing and hopping on the edge of the fountain in the middle of the square a few feet from them, he smiles. Broad and affectionate, happily glancing between them and Chris sitting across from him, trying to suck the cookie crumbles through his straw.

“Yeah, four indeed,” Tom says, tone indolent and warm and Chris, still not understanding, smiles widely at him nevertheless.

—

Chris doesn’t get a chance to ask after that —nor the stones, if he's being honest. 

Tom seems to be of the belief that Chris knows what the magpie thing is about and Chris might have lost a few too many opportunities to make himself clear on it. Thus, he has to resort to the only place where he might find something on it; the magical world of  _ Google — _ sparkle-sparkle,sparkle-sparkle. 

He types in the search bar a million things before he can find something that at least comes close to it —okay, it might not be a million things, but he’s made at least three searches filled with typos due to his haste and impatient nature and another two came up with nothing and from then on it was just abstract, generalized things that  _ might _ , in a very lucky twist of fate, give him something to model his next searches on.

In a high shot, Chris ends up clicking on a link that takes him to  _ Twitter  _ of all things, to a post about the British  _ actually _ having that strange habit of pointing at magpies and saying numbers. 

“What the actual fu- oh? What’s this?” Chris asks absolutely no one seeing as he’s currently all alone at home. But there’s an answer to the tweet that, for some reason, reads familiar to him.

> _ One for sorrow, _
> 
> _ Two for joy, _
> 
> _ Three for a girl, _
> 
> _ Four for a boy, _
> 
> _ Five for silver, _
> 
> _ Six for gold, _
> 
> _ Seven for a secret, _
> 
> _ Never to be told. _
> 
> _ Eight for a wish, _
> 
> _ Nine for a kiss, _
> 
> _ Ten for a bird, _
> 
> _ You must not miss. _

Chris cannot place his finger exactly on why it feels as if he’s heard it before, but it gives him a sort of creepy déjà vu feeling so maybe it was in a horror film or something?

He copies the lyrics and paste them in the search bar and, this time, the first link is to a  _ Wikipedia — _ more sparkle-sparkle, sparkle-sparkle— article and. . . yeah, alright, Chris has to admit he should have thought about superstition sooner. It is quite, blindly, obvious when he adds one to one and gives two. 

The answer is so obvious it definitely dampens his enthusiasm at solving the mystery. Which- there isn’t one to begin with. Just the Brits being Brits.

Chris leans far back on his desk chair and groans, deep and long. Exasperated.

Here he is, spending literal  _ months _ wondering over Tom’s peculiar habit just to have the answer slap him in the face with how-

“Woah wait! What was four again?” He exclaims, chair almost toppling over in his haste to lean back straight to look at his laptop’s screen.

Chris remembers the playful flirting and Tom’s majestic smile when he saw the magpies that last time, the way he looked at Chris with so much fondness, and he laughs. Chris chuckles to himself over and over again, suddenly feeling as if he’s floating on serotonin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, face hidden in the palm of his hand. His smile is so big it feels like it’s going to break the muscles of his mouth.

_ Four for a boy. _

+1. 

They are at the park across their place again. Not running, but walking down the well-trodden path by the lake. The sun is setting behind the trees somewhere on the other side. There are ducks in the water and fishes that make momentary appearances as they hop around before vanishing beneath the surface again. Tom’s talking about a book he finished reading yesterday beside him and he’s all wild gestures and lean hands and thin fingers. His voice falling deeper for suspense when he wants to describe some mysterious part, face taking on all these expressions that seem both ridiculous and lovely on him.

Chris hasn’t talked in a good while, letting out only the appropriate sounds and some questions here and there, swapped into Tom’s enthusiastic narration. It’s as they round a small corner that his eye notices something far off on their left. 

Ungluing his gaze from Tom right now is maybe the hardest thing to do, but he manages after a few moments and he smiles at what he sees.

“Look,” he says, smiling and pointing at the flock of birds hopping around and croaking at each other. 

“Oh, magpies!” Tom exclaims, his attention averted like a kid’s that’s seen their favourite toy. 

He gets on with the counting immediately — _ six, seven, eight, nine— _ and then he snorts; an action that’s so inelegant, so unusual for him that Chris has to choke back a laugh. “Yeah, nine. As if.”

Then Tom’s turning to get back on with his narration of the book, but Chris’ hand on his chin has him pausing, eyes going wide in surprise. Chris can read the anticipation and excitement in their gray-blue, the slight fear he can also feel deep in his gut too. But this is something that’s been long overdue, so Chris doesn’t wait long for Tom to step away from the kiss that’s about to come.

There are no fireworks when their lips meet. No earth-shattering realizations to be made. And it might be on the anticipation building up for so long, on their playful flirting and the tension between them while living together, but Chris can feel his heart skipping a beat still before it flutters on, hitting hard against his ribcage as if it wants to set free and fall to land into Tom’s hands for the keeping. 

Tom’s lips are thin and warm, and he tastes like the cotton candy they shared earlier. The sound he makes has Chris stepping closer, kissing him deeper and it feels very much like an explosion of sugar and spice and everything sweet that is Tom when their tongues meet. Slim hands come to grip on Chris’ t-shirt as Tom steps ever closer, as the kiss gets even deeper. Sweet and intense at the same time. 

When they pull back for breath —because, somehow, they’ve forgotten how to do both kissing and breathing— Tom’s looking at him with such an enormous smile on his face Chris doesn’t think he’s ever seen one like it on anyone ever before. He’s pink-cheeked and cherry-kissed and Chris can’t help but beam back at him, leaning in for another little smooch. His hand has somehow found its way on the side of Tom’s neck, thumb brushing mindlessly to and fro on the underside of his smooth chin, holding him close as they share air and look at each other like the idiots they both probably are.

“Nine for a kiss.” Chris murmurs, eyes lingering on the reddened flesh of Tom’s mouth.

Tom has a moment of bewilderment but then he laughs, unbidden and joyful as he wraps his arms around Chris’ shoulders, nuzzling their noses together. “You finally got on Google,” he chuckles and then moves to drag their lips together in another, slower kiss. 

The magpies croak as they get in the air and fly over their heads and Chris can’t even find it in himself to complain about Tom being aware of his confusion and not trying to help him out of it even once as he gets another taste of his addictive sweetness.

Maybe Chris should start believing in silly bird-oriented superstitions, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading and that this sillyness managed to make you smile ♥  
> Kudos and comments really warm my heart 💕💕💕
> 
> Find me on Twitter, [@TheAngryKimchi1](https://twitter.com/theangrykimchi1)!🥰


End file.
